


i don't have a choice (but i'd still choose you)

by always_a_queen



Series: intertwined [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Drug-Induced Sex, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Missions Gone Wrong, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, and there's a lot of THAT in this fic too, i mean there's just SO MUCH sex, there are so many feelings in this fic, there might be more feelings than sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_queen/pseuds/always_a_queen
Summary: “You’re not asking,” he says. “I’m offering.”“I can’t let you—”—but he cups her cheek with one hand and she forgets what she’s saying. His palm is rough, calloused, but his touch is warm and comforting and she wants comfort and warmth.“Riley?” he tries again. “Can I help you? Is that okay?”////Or: While on a mission, Riley gets dosed with a strong aphrodisiac; Mac “helps”. It’s 13,000 words of sex but it’s also 13,000 words of feelings.
Relationships: Riley Davis/Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: intertwined [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815883
Comments: 35
Kudos: 238





	i don't have a choice (but i'd still choose you)

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably about as consensual as a fuck-or-die trope can be. That said, before going in it might be important to some readers to note that Riley is drugged, Mac is sober, but any violation of consent is on the part of the person who drugged Riley, not on Mac. Riley and Mac mutually consent to have sex under the circumstances that they're in, with both of them knowing that Riley's consent is slightly dubious. 
> 
> Set in sort of a vague end-of-season-3 time where Riley and Billy are over and Mac and Desi are sort of making heart eyes at each other, but aren't together.
> 
> Also, wow, I don't even have an excuse for this. I really don't. Here. Take it. It ate my brain for the past week. I might be working on a sequel. I might be insane.
> 
> Title is from Poison and Wine by The Civil Wars

* * *

Riley can’t stop shaking. She tugs a grey wool blanket more firmly around her shoulders and adjusts the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. A few yards away, Mac, Matty, and Desi are circled up, having a conversation that Riley can’t hear. She _knows_ they’re talking about her, but her head is too foggy to think straight.

Behind the ambulance, a warehouse is burning, along with the makeshift drug lab inside it. Riley was in the building when it caught fire, trying to get whatever data she could off of the computer and servers. She hadn’t noticed the pounding in her head then, the rush of her blood, the rapid beat of her heart.

She’s had panic attacks in her life. She works a job where she is exposed to more traumatic situations in a single week than most people experience in their entire lives. She’s sat in therapy and talked through how when a panic attack hits she always feels like she can’t breathe, how her chest is tight, how her heart feels wild and fluttery, and how her brain seems to stop working.

She thought, at first, that maybe this was just a panic attack. She wanted to disconnect it from her close encounter with the scientist in the hall, the tall, thin woman who had stabbed a syringe into her neck. She wanted to think that the two incidents were unrelated.

But it’s only been about ten minutes since she was dosed, and even Riley has to admit that if this is a panic attack, it’s the weirdest one she’s ever had.

She shouldn’t be so blindingly aware of every small sensation against her skin. She shouldn’t be so flushed, so dizzy with want. She shouldn’t be dying to be touched, held.

Fucked.

She _is_ fucked.

Mac’s the one who breaks off from her circle of concerned friends. Mac is the one who comes over and sits beside her. He doesn’t touch her, and she’s grateful. She’s not entirely sure what she would do if he did. Self-control does not seem to be something she has to spare at the moment. She’s not even sure how she’s holding herself together. 

She pulls off the oxygen mask in order to ask: “What did she hit me with?”

Mac’s eyebrows raise, and he inhales a deep breath only to let it out as a sigh, puffing out his cheeks. “We’re looking into that. We’ve got some theories, but—”

“Please,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just tell me.”

“It looks like an aphrodisiac,” Mac says bluntly, and thank god, because Riley was about to think she was going crazy.

The buzz in her body, the ache between her legs, the way her nipples are pebbling under her bra… she was already starting to suspect—and to dread being right.

“Fine,” she says, making a move to stand. Mac’s hand comes up to grab her elbow, and she freezes at his touch, closing her eyes as pleasure floods through her body. She wants more. She wants to jerk her arm away.

“Don’t,” she manages to get out, and Mac blessedly, horribly, drops his hand. “I will get a ride home. I will ride this thing out and it will be _fine_.”

“Riles,” he says, and the nickname fills her with calm and warmth. “This is not something you have to handle on your own. Let—”

He puts a hand on her shoulder, then jerks it away like she’s burned him. “Please,” he tries, “Let someone help you.”

She shakes her head. He knows there hasn’t been anybody since Billy. “There’s no one to call, Mac.”

“Then let me help. Don’t go through this alone.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“You’re not asking,” he says. “I’m offering.”

“I can’t let you—” 

—but he cups her cheek with one hand and she forgets what she’s saying. His palm is rough, calloused, but his touch is warm and comforting and she wants comfort and warmth.

“Riley?” he tries again. “Can I help you? Is that okay?”

She feels her lip quiver. Her eyes sting with tears. She closes them tightly, nodding yes. 

“Please.” She’s shaking, and it’s only getting worse. “Please take me home, Mac.”

She opens her eyes. His expression is serious and focused, but nothing about it is pitying or unkind. He ducks his chin down in a single nod.

The next thing Riley knows, she’s being helped into the front passenger seat of an SUV. She buckles herself in, and then leans back in the seat. She closes her eyes tightly, trying to stave off the needy feeling churning inside her. 

“My place or yours?” Mac asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” she murmurs, pulling the blanket off of her shoulders and shoving it away. She peels off her jacket next.

“Riles?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, pulling off her black tank-top, leaving her in another violet tank and her sports bra. “We’re gonna have a problem if we don’t get there soon.”

Mac steps on it. Riley thinks they make it to his apartment in record time. He parks as close to the door as possible, and once he’s thrown the car into park and turned off the ignition, he wastes no time jogging around the vehicle and opening her door.

Her legs buckle when she tries to stand. Mac catches her. He manages to get one arm beneath her knees and the other against her back. Riley wraps her arms tightly around him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and his shoulder.

He carries her into his bedroom, and Riley tries not to overthink the significance of that as he gently sets her down on the bed. He keeps her in a sitting position. Without hesitation, he kneels in front of her, using quick, nimble fingers to unlace her combat boots and gently pull them off of her feet. He sets them aside gingerly, then asks, “Socks?”

She nods her permission. Mac gingerly rolls one plain white sock down and off of her right foot, then her left. He tucks them into one of her boots.

“Riles,” he says. “You’ve got to breathe for me, okay? What do you need?”

She doesn’t even know. She needs the burning of arousal sweeping through her whole body to stop. She needs to be able to look Mac in the eye when this is all through.

“Can you just—Can you hold me?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thick with concern. “Yeah, I can do that.”

He’s already standing up, pulling off first one shoe and then the other. He sets them beside her own and then climbs onto the mattress behind her, propping up a few pillows against the headboard and leaning back against them. 

Riley is grateful when Mac lets her come to him. She crawls across the bed, turning so she can sink back into his open arms.

She’s still shaking as Mac pulls her into him, holding her so her back is against his chest. He rests the palm of his left hand against her stomach, and he presses his other hand against her forehead. She can feel how drenched with sweat she is, but she can also feel how she’s burning up. She’s so hot. 

Mac smooths her sweat-sticky hair away from her face. It’s sort of grounding, having his body sure against hers, having his arms around her.

“Okay?” he asks her.

“Yeah,” she whines, turning her head to the side even as she struggles to take even breaths. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to stop feeling so out of control.

She’s unravelling so fast. It’s terrifying.

She remembers when Mac built a flying contraption with balloons and a trampoline. She remembers lying flat on her back against the trampoline material, staring up at all the colorful balloons, fully aware that there were thousands of feet between her and the ground.

She feels like that now. Thousands of feet from the ground with only a thin layer of material keeping her from falling to her death, and desire and arousal keeping her suspended so high.

She trusted Mac then. She trusted his brain and his science and _him_.

So she trusts him now.

“Riles,” his voice is right by her ear, and he speaks gently. “I need you to breathe with me.”

“Can’t,” she whimpers. God, she sounds _so_ pathetic. “Mac, I can’t.”

“Shhhhh,” he soothes. He moves his right hand from her hair to her arm, rubbing down the length of it gently. “I’ve got you. It’s easy. Feel it with me. Feel me breathe.”

She’s not sure she can. Everything is _so much_ . Her skin burns and she feels so _hot_.

“Nice deep breath in with me, Riles. C’mon.” He must purse his lips, because she can hear him inhale. She tries so hard to match him. _Breathe in. Just breathe in_.

“Good, Riles. That’s good,” he tells her, and she tries _so hard_ to ignore how that makes her suddenly wet, makes her insides clench, makes her want to scream with need. 

“Now let it out,” he says, “With me, here.” He makes his exhale audible too, and she works as hard as she can to match it.

“Just like that,” Mac says. “Just like that, you’re doing fine. You’re gonna be fine. What do you need next?”

She tries to think. If it were her, just her, lying in her bed aching and ready, she’d be significantly less clothed. “Jeans off,” she says, reaching for the button. She manages it with a quick flick of her thumb, then pulls down the zipper. She writhes a bit, lifting her hips and ass off of the bed in order to shimmy the jeans down her thighs. Once she gets them past her knees, she can kick them off.

She thinks she’s just about soaked through the black cotton panties she’s wearing today. There’s nothing tremendously special about them, save for the ribbon of hot pink lace along the top hem. Practicality with a hint of style. 

The whole ordeal of taking off her pants is exhausting, and the air hitting her skin only slightly helps the ache inside her subside. Riley goes for her bra next, sliding the straps down her shoulders, then leaning forward to reach back and attempt to unhook it.

“I got it,” Mac says, taking her by the wrists and lowering her arms. She takes a shaky breath as Mac slides his hands beneath her shirt. The feel of his skin on hers, as light of a touch as it is, ramps everything up to a higher intensity. Once Mac has unhooked the clasps, Riley tugs her bra out from beneath her tank top and tosses it aside.

She sinks back against Mac, closing her eyes and sneaking a hand beneath her shirt to cup one of her breasts. With her other hand, she grabs Mac’s wrist and drags his arm across her waist, moving him how she wants him. 

“Talk to me?” she asks, pinching a nipple and gasping a little at the sensation. “Mac?”

“When, uh, when the… the female body is aroused,” he starts, “it does this thing called tenting, where the cervix rises up and the vagina walls thicken and lubricate, to prepare for insertion. The clitoris actually gets erect, and it sinks back beneath the clitoral hood. The nerves in the clitoris actually wrap all the way around the vagina, which is why some scientists think that both vaginal and clitoral orgasm are actually both clitoral orgasms.”

If she weren’t feeling like she was about to burst into flames, Riley might be a little more amused. Of course Mac _reads_ about this. Mac reads about everything. Why shouldn’t he be reading about sex and arousal?

As it is, his mention of the clitoris makes her want to touch hers. Riley slips her hand beneath her panties, feeling the slight bristle of hair there and then soft wetness as she lets her finger slip father down.

She lets out a low groan of relief, and she could swear that Mac’s hold on her tightens. “I’d say we’re definitely hitting all of those descriptions,” she manages to say.

“Yeah?” His voice sounds choked, raspy. “Good. That’s good. Tell me where you’re at?”

“Touching helps.” Riley circles her clit with her forefinger slowly. “Feels good. Feels likes like I’m going to die if something doesn’t, ah—”

She lets out a cry. Mac keeps himself very, very still against her, but she can feel the tension in him. “It’s okay,” she slurs. “It’s good; it’s good, Mac.”

She switches from clockwise to counter and sighs in contentment. Strange how as her body is building itself up, the agony of arousal is winding down.

“Touching helps?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah.” She’s practically whimpering again. She should have said they should go to her place. She’d like some battery powered help right about now. 

“Keep touching then.” 

She thinks maybe he bends his head to press a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’m right here,” he says evenly. “I’ve got you, and you’re safe with me. You’re _safe_ , Riles.”

Riley increases her speed a little, varying the pressure on her clit a bit. She can feel herself cresting, rising higher. It’s so _fast_ , but she doesn’t usually have a wicked strong aphrodisiac skipping through her veins when she gets herself off. 

“I think,” she manages, hissing a bit even as she feels her clit throb beneath her fingers, “I think I’m going to—”

Mac’s arm on her stomach slides up a bit. He’s holding her so close. She feels so _safe_.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, “It’s okay. It’s okay, you can come. Come just like this. Come in my arms.”

It hits her like a thunderclap. She arches her back and rubs her clit and she swears the sound that comes out of her mouth isn’t even human.

In the aftermath, she sobs. She twists around in Mac’s arms, hides her face in his shirt, and cries in heaving, full body sobs that wrack through her body as violently as her orgasm did. She fists her fingers around the material of his shirt and lets him soak up her tears.

He rubs her back in gentle, circular motions. He lowers his head and makes shushing sounds into her ear, but they’re soothing, not patronizing. He’s not trying to convince her to stop crying, he’s trying to console her through it.

Abruptly, she shoves herself back, sitting up, legs bent off to one side. She can’t bear to look at Mac’s face, suddenly very aware of how she’s just in her tank top and her underwear. Her bra is who knows where, her jeans are on the floor, and she just made herself come in his arms.

And she’s been in love with him, since, well, since he used a paperclip to release her handcuffs and marched her out of prison. Mac has saved her, in every way a person can be saved. 

He doesn’t feel the same. She knows how he looks at Desi. She knows what he looks like when he’s interested in someone. She knows how he looks at girls he likes, and she knows what he looks like when he’s looking at her.

She knows him too well to deceive herself into thinking they are anything other than what they are.

But this? This is mortifying. She wants to crawl into a hole and hide forever. She thinks she may never be able to look Mac in the eyes ever again.

“I should go,” she says quietly, keeping her gaze down. She’s not shy. She’s not embarrassed. She’s fucking _Artemis_. She runs around with a man who saves the world with a pocketknife. She’s _better_ than this. 

“Slow down,” Mac says, “Take a breath.” He catches her by the arm before she can scramble off of the bed. His touch doesn’t disorient her in the same way it did before, but it does send her stomach into somersaults.

Mac winces a little as he moves around her. “Let me get you some water. Just, rest a minute.”

It’s when he follows it up with, “Please,” that Riley settles back down. She grabs one of his pillows and presses it to her chest, holding onto it in a pale imitation of a hug. 

She _still_ can’t look at Mac.

“Be right back,” he says, letting one of his hands linger against her shoulder before he walks away.

It seems like no time at all has passed when he’s back again, glass of water in one hand, wet washcloth in the other. She reaches for the washcloth first. It’s hot, and she presses it to her face, letting it soothe her. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, using the cloth to wipe at her surely smeared makeup. “God, Mac I am _so sorry_.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” the words come out in a rush, quiet and quick. “This is _not_ your fault? Do you hear me?”

“I could’ve…” She’s not exactly sure what she could have done. She could have gone down a different hallway. She could have stayed home.

Riley stares at the washcloth in her hand. She could have gone back to her apartment and taken care of everything herself. She was just so weak, so lost. She’s felt so lost, since Jack left, since Billy started seeing someone else behind her back…

“I could have too,” he says. “I could have not left you alone in there. I could have done things differently, but we’re here now. And what happened was _not_ your fault.”

He tucks his finger beneath her chin to encourage her to look up at him. She expects pity. She expects regret. She expects everything but the steadiness she sees in his gaze. “You are _so_ important to me, Riles. You have no idea.”

Something pangs low in her gut, but she ignores it. Mac opens his arms, and Riley stands up in order to walk into them. She loves Mac’s hugs. She likes the feel of him, solid and strong and secure. Sometimes he hugs her and she thinks she never wants him to stop.

“I don’t want this to change anything.”

“It won’t,” he says with certainty. “Not if we don’t want it to.”

There’s another lurch in her stomach, and a sinking, twisting feeling and suddenly…

“Mac,” Riley says slowly, “I think maybe it’s starting again?”

He pulls back just enough to look down at her. “What?”

“I feel all…” She shakes her head, like that will dislodge the words she wants to say. “I still feel weird. Achy. Like my skin is too tight.”

His look is one of deep concern. “Let me call Matty, see if they’ve found out anything more about what you were hit with.” She sees the tick of his jaw, the press together of his lips. 

She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “I can handle this one on my own.”

“Hey,” he says. “We’ve been over this. I’m not going to just leave you. Be right back.”

He steps into the other room to reach out to Matty, and Riley sits back down on the bed. She picks up the glass of water from where Mac left it on the nightstand. It’s cool. Ice clinks in the glass as she raises it to her lips.

After taking a few large gulps, Riley bends forward and presses the cool glass to the back of her neck. She breathes in deep and slow.

Her skin is prickly and tight. She still feels wrung out from her orgasm a few minutes ago. Even thinking about touching herself makes her wince.

When Mac comes back, Riley’s sitting back on the bed, knees pulled up to her chest.

She feels the mattress dip as Mac sits back down. “It’s not good, Riley.”

She groans. “Couldda told you that.”

“The good news is it _will_ wear off. The bad news is it could be anywhere from forty-eight to seventy-two hours.” 

“The _fuck_? What kind of absolute monster created this shit?”

“Not a clue.” Mac places a hand on her back.

“So I have to deal with this shit for another two days?” She doesn’t think it’s even been two hours and she’s already not handling it well. 

His sigh is deep. “At least. We’re gonna figure this out, though. The first step is to slow down the time between...uh...”

“Needing to come so badly I can’t think straight?” she tries, turning her head to look at him.

Mac rubs the back of his neck. “Yep. That. We need to slow that down.”

“Alright, science guy,” Riley says, working very hard to keep her breathing even when she really just wants to gasp and moan. “What do you suggest?”

He grins, just a little. “We’ve established that you trust me, right?”

“Think so,” she replies.

“Right then,” he stands and starts to pull off his blue-and-white plaid shirt.

“Mac,” Riley says. “You really think the solution to slowing this down is for you to _remove_ clothes.”

“I have a theory,” he says, pulling off his tee-shirt next and setting both it and the flannel down on a nearby chair. “And you said you trust me.”

She frowns. “I _do,_ but…”

His jeans are coming off. Riley closes her eyes. Boxer-briefs is the answer to a question she’s never really thought to ask before. She wants to tell him to get dressed. She wants to tell him to get completely naked. She wants to tell him to come here, beg her to help her. Beg him to do _anything_ to make the emptiness inside her go away.

She bites her lip _hard_ when he crawls into bed with her. She nearly moans when she feels his hands on her back, through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Come here,” Mac says. “Skin-to-skin contact can slow your heart rate, lower your anxiety, and help you rest.”

There is no way he’s right about this, but Riley does trust him, so she trusts him enough to guide her back into his arms, to let him help her lay her down against him, cheek against his chest.

“Mac,” she starts to say when his hands slide underneath her tank to start lifting it up. “Are you sure?”

“You’ve got this,” he says. “Just close your eyes and breathe easy.”

That is so much easier said than done. Once the shirt is gone it _is_ just her skin against his, her body pressed to his.

It _does_ feel good, but not in a wanting, needy way. Just kind of comfortable. Mac trails his fingers down her spine in slow, soothing patterns. Riley tries not to think about how, lying like this, held against him like this, her breasts are squished pleasantly against his chest, or how her palm is flat over one of his pecs.

Mac adjusts beneath her slightly, slipping one of his legs between hers. For a moment there’s a delicious feeling of pressure right where she wants it, but he makes a soothing, shushing sound, and adjusts a little more. “If you get to the point where you need to touch,” he says, “grind down on my thigh, okay? The indirect stimulation will build you up slower and it won’t be as hard on sensitive areas.”

For someone who explained the scientific explanation for the reaction of the clitoris during sex, “sensitive areas” is a little bit of a strange euphemism for her lady parts, but Riley chooses to ignore it, because, well, it’s not a bad idea.

“For now,” Mac says, “Just breathe easy and close your eyes.”

“Can you keep talking?” Riley says. “It’s distracting.”

“Sure,” he says kindly. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” she answers, tilting her chin just a little to look up at him. “Tell me about anything.”

He tells her about a mission before her time, about Jack saving his life. He talks about his mom, or what little he remembers of her. He talks about things he and Bozer got up to when he was younger. He doesn’t mention his dad. Through it all, Riley focuses on breathing, on imagining the stories he’s telling her. She focuses on Mac, as a person, as her _friend_ , as one of the best people in her life.

And then, when she can’t ignore it any more, she grinds down against his leg, rocking and whimpering and cursing because it hurts and it’s too much and not enough. Mac strokes her hair and rubs her back and tells her she’s okay, she’s safe, she’s good, she’s....

He might tell her she’s beautiful, she’s not sure. She can feel him hard against her, but she ignores it. This entire situation is embarrassing enough. 

She whimpers through her orgasm this time, and she collapses boneless against him when it’s over. She feels sweaty and gross and sticky. She feels dirty and used and safe. She feels out of control and held together.

She must nod off sometime after she comes down, because some indeterminable time later, she wakes up in Mac’s bed, alone, and the sun through the windows seems lower, dimmer.

She feels groggy and disoriented, and her head is _pounding_ , but when she takes stock of how she feels, she realizes that for the most part, everything seems kind of normal. Nothing out of the ordinary for waking up from a cat-nap in the middle of the day.

When she rolls over, she spies a bottle of aspirin and a tall glass of orange juice on the nightstand. She downs a pill, thankful for Mac and his very smart brain. She’s still half naked, but she sees Mac’s flannel before she spies any of her own clothes, so she wraps it around herself, threading her arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up. Mac isn’t _that_ much taller than she is, so it doesn’t cover that much, but it does what it needs to.

Riley takes the orange juice with her as she goes to look for Mac. She finds him in the main room, nose stuck in a book. He looks up when she enters.

“Hey,” he says, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes take in her body. “How are you feeling?”

Riley shrugs, rubbing her arms absently. “A little more normal. How long was I out?”

“About an hour or so,” he says. He tucks his legs, which were sprawled out across the length of the couch, back so there’s room for her.

She takes the offer to sit down, and curls up on the opposite end of the couch, keeping space between them. It almost doesn’t matter, because there was definitely _not_ any space between them an hour ago. “Maybe that means we’re lengthening the time between episodes?”

“Maybe.” Mac snaps shut the book and sets it on the side table. “I hope so.”

“Any more news?”

He shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

“Then I guess, what? Four hours down? Forty-four to go?” She doesn’t mention that it could be as many as seventy-two. “I don’t know how to do this, Mac.”

He clears his throat. “Let’s look at it this way, we made it through four hours. We’ll make it through four hours more, and then four after that.”

Riley sips at her OJ. She doesn’t know how to interpret the look Mac is giving her. It’s not worry, exactly. It’s also not concern. There’s something affectionate about it. Something genuine. 

He cares, and knowing that warms her heart. She wishes that this had never happened, that she’d never stepped into that lab. That she’d never found herself in a position to need him like this, and he’d never found himself in a position to give of himself to her like this.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I don’t think I said it earlier.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Riles,” Mac says.

“Feel like I do.” She picks idly at the hem of his shirt.

“Well,” Mac says, “For the record, you don’t.”

She grins. “So you’d be just as accommodating for Bozer or Jack?”

Mac laughs, shaking his head. Riley’s heart stutters. It’s not fair for him to be _so_ attractive all the time. “Let’s just be glad neither Bozer nor Jack are in this situation, and we don’t have to find out.”

Leaning forward, he picks up a Switch controller from the coffee table. “Mario Kart?” he asks.

“Sure. I’m happy to kick your ass at Mario Kart.”

Mac makes a face. “You’ve _never_ kicked my ass at Mario Kart.”

“You crazy?” Riley watches as he clicks over to the right channel with the TV remote. He passes her a controller. “I have _always_ crushed you at this game.”

They manage somewhere around two circuits before Riley starts feeling that odd skin-tingling sensation again. She doesn’t even have to say anything this time. Between races, Mac situates himself on the floor with his back against the couch, and she sits gratefully between his legs, her back to his chest. He puts his arms around her shoulders and holds the controller in front of her so they can keep playing. 

They keep racing a while longer, until Riley can’t focus anymore, until she sets aside the controller and twists in Mac’s arms. Until he holds her close against him, pressing his chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder. She presses her hands to his thighs and digs her nails in. 

“I can’t, Mac,” she whines. “It hurts.”

“Let me help?” he asks.

She nods. “Please.”

It’s practically torture when he touches her. Her body is screaming for _fast_ and _hard_ and _now_ , but Mac is gentle and slow and easy. He palms one breast over her—his—shirt, then the other. He slides his hand between her legs and gently cups her over her panties. He lets her lift her hips to meet his touch, lets her set the place as she rocks against his hand, but doesn’t let her push herself too fast.

When he finally, finally, slides his hand beneath the lace band of her underwear, she nearly cries with relief. He keeps his movements gentle. Circles, taps, gentle motions. He seems to know not to focus too much attention on her clit. He doesn’t slide any fingers inside her, though she almost wants to beg for him to. To her desire-addled mind, it would feel _so_ good.

The tiny rational part of her mind wonders how many lines they’re crossing now. How many lines will they cross before this is all over? Will they ever be able to come back from this?

Instead the arousal drenched part of her brain just gasps and groans her way to another shuddering orgasm that wrenches through her body so intensely it’s almost painful.

He holds her as she comes down, and again she’s aware that this is having an effect on him. But he’s not saying anything. He’s not doing anything about it. He’s just focused on her. It’s sweet and selfless in a way that makes her want to cry.

“You’re good,” he says softly. “You’re good. You’re okay.”

“I swear, Mac,” she cries. “It’s painful.”

“I’m sorry.” He holds her tighter. “I’m so, so sorry. We’ll figure out something different for the next one, okay?”

He reaches an arm around her legs and with a gentle grip on her thigh, pulls her around so she can sit sideways in his lap. She wraps herself around him, still a little shaky, but coming down.

He gets her a glass of water that she drinks downs quickly, and then he goes and gets another one.

They play some more Mario Kart. Then they play some Smash Brothers. Then some Overcooked. Mac is about as good at being a cartoon chef as he is at being a real one, which is hysterical.

Then Mac places an order for Thai on his phone, and by the time he’s finished with the call, Riley is sweaty and shaky and digging her nails into her palms in an attempt to distract herself from the achy need trying to consume her.

“I have a thought?” Mac says. They’re standing in the kitchen with his arms around her, because she came up to him while he was on the phone and he wrapped her up in his embrace as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “If you’re okay with it?”

She’s ready to tear her skin off. Without even knowing what he means, she says. “I’m okay with it.”

“Okay.” He swallows. Hard. “Okay.”

He takes her hand and leads her into the bedroom. He helps her onto the bed, helps her settle into a mound of pillows and makes sure she’s comfortable. He sits on the mattress beside her. One by one, he undoes the buttons of the shirt she’s wearing. His shirt. His shirt on her body.

Riley shivers. His fingers ghost down her stomach as he finishes the final buttons. He doesn’t move to expose any more of her body, just keeps the sliver of soft brown skin that makes a line from her abdomen to her neck.

And then he climbs over her, careful to brace his weight on his forearms so that he’s not smothering her. He lowers his head, pressing his face into the side of her neck, and kisses her skin. It’s soft and feather-light, and he repeats it as Riley grabs his forearms and squeezes tight. He finds her clavicle, kisses her chest, pushes the shirt aside enough to expose more skin for him to touch.

She is burning up. She is _dying_. She is soaring.

He presses kisses down her sternum, above her belly button. He kisses the tops of her legs, her hipbones, the insides of her thighs. 

He kisses _her_ , over her panties, which must be damp and smell like her and—

She arches against him, throws her head back. 

He hooks two fingers beneath her underwear and slowly draws them down her legs.

This is another line. This is another boundary. This is another thing they will do that they can never take back, never recover from. This is—

This is his breath hot on her skin and his tongue against her folds. This is his hand reaching up to grab hers and hold on for dear life. This is his other hand catching beneath her thigh and lifting her leg over his shoulder while he very gently swipes his tongue against sensitive skin. 

And there’s an intensity there, at what his mouth and tongue are doing to her, but in the moment, all Riley can focus on is his hand, how that touch is the one grounding her while her body spirals out of control.

He rests his other arm across her stomach, holding her still. He goes slow and easy, switching things up when he needs to. He doesn’t seem to care about building her up, which is a good thing because her body is doing that anyway. Everything is taught and tight and hot. She’s so, so hot. 

“Will you... _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck…_ ” She gasps as he does something with his tongue that sends her soaring on a wave of pleasure. “Will you… Would you… would you fuck me with your fingers?”

He hums against her, and the next thing she knows he’s moving—not the hand that’s holding hers, the other one—and gently pressing at her entrance. He’s so, so careful with her. Always.

Riley screws her eyes shut as he presses into her a little deeper, a little more. “Yeah,” she manages to say. “Yeah, like that. _Please_.”

He obliges with a slow, experimental thrust in and out, accompanied with a soft lick to her clit, and she swears she nearly dies and ascends to heaven right then and there. She’s so wet, so wound up. She can feel her walls clenching, her body tensing, tightening, winding up.

He keeps going, 

She comes with a scream, and the whole time Mac eases her through it. When it’s done ripping its way through her body, she thinks she wants to die. Mac turns his head, kisses the inside of her thigh, and stays there for a moment, between her legs, looking up at her.

She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be seeing in the way he’s staring at her. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be feeling in the wake of this. She doesn’t know what he’s feeling, just that he’s here with her, and he hasn’t stopped holding her hand.

Riley blinks back tears. The doorbell rings. Mac turns his head in the direction of the sound. “That’s the Thai food,” he says. “You okay for the moment?”

She nods, and he leaves. She buttons up her shirt, hugs a pillow to her chest, and tries to just feel grateful that for the moment, this awful beast inside her has settled down.

Mac comes back with a washcloth and a plastic bag holding two containers of shrimp pad thai. He sets the food down on the mattress, and reaches over to gently position the hot washcloth over her sex. “This should help a little,” he says.

It does. It feels warm and soothing against skin that is so sensitive and sore. 

Mac digs into the food. He passes one container to her, and keeps his own. They eat together on the bed, side by side, leaning against the headboard, Riley in his shirt, him still fully clothed.

“No one in the tests they did for this stupid fucking drug went insane, did they?” Riley asks Mac.

“Not that I am aware of,” he says around a mouthful of vegetables, shrimp, and rice noodles. “The only reported deaths were subjects who, well, were restrained throughout.”

Riley can’t even imagine that. She thinks it must be what hell is like. “I couldn’t have done this alone,” she says finally, staring at her noodles like they hold the answer to every question she’s raised about her relationship with Mac since this whole thing started. “I really couldn’t have.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. Solid. Warm. Comforting.

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence. Riley doesn’t even know what to say anymore. Someone from Phoenix has gone to her apartment and brought her a duffle full of clothes and toiletries. Getting to use actual make-up remover to wash her face feels incredible. So does hopping in Mac’s shower to rince the sweat and sex off of her body. She puts on a fresh shirt and pair of underwear, but the thought of jeans just feels like overkill when she’ll just be dying to take them off again in a few hours. What’s the point? 

The only encouraging thing is that her break between episodes lasts a lot longer this time. They manage dinner, three games of checkers, and two episodes of Mythbusters before Riley feels it kick in again.

The good thing is that she’s been cuddled up to him on the couch, her back to his front, since the middle of the first Mythbusters episode, so it comes on slow. When she can’t handle it anymore, she lifts Mac’s hand and places it over her breast. He understands without her having to say anything.

Mythbusters keeps playing, but Mac kisses the back of her neck and cups her breasts with his hands.

And maybe it’s the dizzying lust. Maybe it’s the burning ache all over her body. Maybe it’s that her body is out of control but her heart isn’t. Maybe it’s that she can feel how hard he is against her back.

Maybe it’s all of those things and maybe it’s none of them. Maybe it’s just the simple fact that Riley _loves_ him. In every way she ever thought she could love another human being.

She turns herself over in his arms. Kneeling in front of him on the couch, she asks, “Can I touch you?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could take them back. He’s not the one trying to come down from a drug induced arousal high. He’s just a man whose body is reacting normally to a woman writhing against him and begging him to make her come.

She shakes her head. “Never, never mind, I shouldn’t have—”

But he cuts her off by grabbing both of her hands in his. “You can touch me, Riles. It’s okay.”

Slowly, he lowers their hands together to his chest. She presses her palms there, over his tee-shirt. She can feel the warmth of his body, the rise of his chest as he breathes. Falling forward a little, she touches her forehead to his. “Can I take off your shirt?”

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “Yeah, go ahead.”

He sits up a little and lifts his arms to help her. She throws the white tee off to the side somewhere, uncaring where it lands. 

She’s seen Mac shirtless before, lots of times. She’s mentally catalogued the scars from gunshots, stabbings. There’s not many, but there are a few. Keeping her forehead against his, she touches the tiny freckles on the tops of his shoulders, brings her searching fingers to his clavicle, traces down his sternum, counts his ribs. Her fingers brush against the top of his jeans, but she doesn’t go farther than that.

She tilts her head down to kiss his neck, his earlobe, the little hollow of his jaw. Mac’s hands settle on her waist, beneath the shirt she wears, and his thumbs press into her ribcage.

Riley experiments a little, scraping her teeth lightly against his skin, feeling as he jolts a little against her but doesn’t tell her to stop. He doesn’t say anything, but he does draw a sharp breath when she runs her nails lightly down his chest.

She rocks against him experimentally, rolling her hips, and this earns her a soft, “Riles.”

“Stop me before I go too far,” she says. “Please? I can’t think and I’m so lost and I just…”

She stops talking to kiss down his sternum, sliding her body down to keep a good angle. She thinks maybe she could eat him alive. Her core is _throbbing_ but that doesn’t seem to matter when she’s getting to touch him like this.

“Don’t stop,” he tells her, even as she rests her hands on his belt buckle. “I don’t want you to stop.”

She flicks open the buckle, pulls the belt through the belt loops in one smooth motion that has Mac’s eyes darkening as he watches. Getting his pants off takes both of them working together, but then he’s lying there beneath her, wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs and a gleam in his eyes that makes her think she could spontaneously combust on the spot.

Then, here they are, at another crossroads. He hasn’t gotten completely naked. Always the briefs have stayed on, in the same way she’s always been sort of clothed. Riley hooks one of her fingers beneath the band of his briefs. She forces herself to meet his gaze. She’s scared of what he’s going to say next, and she’s ready to feel rejection when she asks, “Can I?”

He lifts a hand, presses it to her cheek, and she leans into his touch like it’s the only grounding force left in the world. “Go on,” he says.

She pulls the briefs down. Again, it’s a team effort to get them off, but then there’s just Mac, all of him, completely uncovered before her.

She doesn't know what they’re doing, or what she’s thinking, but he’s semi-hard, and her brain is screaming at her to touch him.

Of all the things dropped off by Phoenix, Riley was most grateful to find the bottle of lube. It’s not hers. She’s never used this brand before, but someone with foresight knew to pack it for her. Since she found it (and a pack of condoms and dental dams), she’s kept it within arms reach. Just in case.

Now, she’s grateful it’s just casually sitting on the coffee table, because it doesn’t take any thought on her part to pop open the cap and tip a few drops into her palm. She’s a little conservative, because prior experience has taught her that a little can go a long way.

She hesitates again. Another line. Another crossroads, another thing they can never take back. But Mac looks her right in the eye and says _please_ , and all thoughts of backing away flee from her mind.

And then, with careful motions, she touches him. She senses her own nerves and hesitation only a couple of seconds in, and so she places his hand over hers and lets him help her, letting him show her what he likes.

It shouldn’t calm the brutal fire inside her, but it does. Stroking him, making him pant and gasp and buck his hips into her hand, feels like cool, sweet release. He keeps one of his hands on her neck, thumb rubbing back and forth against her skin, and that’s the touch that grounds her, settles her. At some point he moves his hand up and over, dragging the hard callouses on the pad of his thumb across her lips. 

He comes in her hands and it’s a beautiful thing. The strangled shout he makes, the feeling of him pulse and throb and spill onto her fingers.

He looks up at her with lazy, unfocused eyes. His thumb pushes against her bottom lip. Riley presses the hand she’d been using on Mac to his chest, then slides the other between her legs, beneath her underwear.

It takes a stupidly short time for her to climax this go-around. All she has to think about is the sounds Mac made, of the singular touch of his thumb to her lips, and she’s going off like a rocket.

When it’s over, her body settles into fuzzy contentment. Her eyes are closed, but she feels Mac sitting up beneath her, pressing his forehead to hers, using the hand on her neck to pull her face in and—

She jerks back before he can kiss her. She stammers her way through an excuse of running to the restroom to clean up. She washes her hands, cleans up a bit, and splashes cold water on her face. Looking in the mirror is a really bad idea, but she does it anyway. 

There’s a tap at the door. Quiet, almost imperceptible. 

“Riley,” Mac says softly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she manages. “I will be, I just—”

It was too much. It was heat of the moment and they’ve both been raw and vulnerable all day, but she just couldn’t let him kiss her.

It wouldn’t be real. None of this has been real. It’s all been chemicals pumped into her bloodstream by a labcoat-wearing maniac. 

Riley pulls open the bathroom door. Mac’s standing off to the side, leaning one shoulder against the hall. He’s not exactly dressed. He’s still shirtless but at least he’s cleaned up and has put on pants.

“I’m sorry,” he says right out of the gate. “We didn’t… we didn’t talk about that and I shouldn’t have—”

“No—” she says quickly. “We can’t overthink this. We can’t…” She tries to stamp down the emotion rising in her throat. “I won’t let this break us and neither will you. Promise me that now.”

Mac holds up three fingers. “I promise, Riles.”

She falls forward into his hug, letting her forehead rest against his shoulder. “Okay,” she says. “Good. You’re too important to me to lose.”

He cups the back of her head with his hand and rocks them a little side to side.

Surviving the night is the worst. They curl up together in Mac’s bed, her little spoon to his big, and Riley manages to catch a few hours of sleep before the heat in her bones rises again. She tries not to wake him, but her whimpers and cries cause him to stir. He gets her off with his fingers and though the orgasm is intense, the quickness with which it comes is almost more of a relief.

Sometime later she wakes up drenched in sweat and burning up. Mac’s already got a cool compress on her forehead, and she barely has time to really think through what’s happening before he’s scooped her up and carried her to the bathroom, where he lowers her carefully into an ice bath. That wakes her up enough to realize that this is probably the longest she’s gone without climaxing, the furthest point her body has had the drug hijacking her system, and she’s slept through it.

She thinks maybe she’s going to die. Maybe she tells him that. Every part of her body feels like it’s on fire. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_.

Mac lowers the showerhead into the tub and uses the steady thrum of the water against her sex to get her off. It feels like dying. It feels like being turned inside out. She’s still spasming from it when Mac pulls her from the tub and wraps her in a towel. And _that_ is when his face crumbles.

He’s clinging to her for dear life and his tears are hot against her shoulder and Riley thinks in that moment that they are both, without a question, _fucked_ . Because if Mac is showing this depth of emotion, then she probably almost just came really _really_ close to dying.

“I’m okay,” she tells him. “I’m okay. You’ve got me. You’ve still got me. I’m still here.”

They catch bits and pieces of sleep, after that. Naked, they lie together on his bed. Riley’s hair is uncomfortably wet, but Mac braids it back for her when she starts to fuss with it. She wants to ask him how he learned to do that, but all things considered, braiding doesn’t seem completely out of the realm of possibility for Bizarre Skills Angus MacGyver has picked up over his years on earth.

She sleeps, and wakes, and comes, and the three things mix so often with each other Riley just sort of loses track. She comes on Mac’s fingers and tongue. She comes once, she thinks, just from his mouth on her breasts. She loses time. She loses space. She loses _sense_.

And he never leaves. He goes to the kitchen to bring her water. He goes to the living room to grab the lube. But he never actually leaves. He holds her as she comes crashing down to earth and he holds her when her body is going to fly apart and he’s just _there_. Always.

In the morning, she wakes up to the smell of coffee. She feels achy and sore, but otherwise normal. She feels like she’s just run a marathon. A shower sounds good, but coffee sounds better, so Riley pulls on a fresh tank top and a pair of clean underwear and wanders into the kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter, whittling a piece of wood with a pocket-knife. It’s not his usual swiss army knife, but a different black one. 

“Hey,” she says. She doesn’t bother to fix herself a cup of coffee, just grabs Mac’s half-full US Army mug and takes slow sips. It’s still hot. It’s also strong and black. Riley’s more of a latte or mocha person, but right now she thinks she’s going to die if she doesn’t get caffeine in her.

“Matty’s gonna stop by in a bit with some breakfast,” Mac tells her. “I told her to leave it on the porch. You got anything you need her to bring?”

Riley’s really not sure. “My dignity back?” she says as a joke.

“You’ve got plenty here,” Mac replies. His smile is easy-going and gentle. “Promise.”

He’s been making a lot of promises to her lately. She’s not sure he’ll be able to keep all of them.

His tone turns serious. He sets down the knife and the piece of wood he’s been carving. “You came close, last night, to—” One of his hands clenches into a fist. “I want to kill whoever made this fucking thing.” 

She puts her hand over his. “Thanks for keeping me alive. You know, on a semi-weekly basis.” 

Matty brings eggs and bacon and french toast from a little pancake place right down the road. Mac scarfs it down like he’s dying. He looks exhausted, so once they’re through with breakfast, Riley tells him to try and sleep. She promises to stay close by and wake him if she needs anything. Mac collapses into slumber on one side of the bed, while Riley props herself up on a pile of pillows against the headboard and works on her laptop for a bit. She feels restless and itchy and irritable, and it takes her _way_ too long to realize that it’s the drug rearing its ugly head again. 

This time, she tries to take care of it herself, but no matter what she does, she can’t get there. At first it’s just odd. Then it’s concerning. Then finally, it’s terrifying.

After several failed attempts, Riley realizes that she probably needs to wake up Mac. She doesn’t want to, but she can already feel her body burning a little hotter than before. She tries to breathe through it, even as she nudges at Mac’s shoulder.

He’s awake in a second. Even in the haziness of sleep, his first instinct is to reach for her. He barely has to touch her, just lay an arm across her stomach and her fingers finish the job for her. Riley pulls her hand from her underwear and wipes her fingers on her thigh.

“You were supposed to wake me,” he says. He tugs her a little closer, and still only half-awake, rests his head on her stomach.

“Sorry,” she says. “I thought I could handle it. Turns out I couldn’t.”

“But you’re okay?” he asks.

“I’m good,” she answers. She cards her fingers through the blonde strands of his hair in slow, gentle motions. He sighs against her, and she can feel his breath on her skin. 

She exhales deeply, relief sweeping through her.

They rest like that for a while. Riley orders Chinese food for lunch, and this time she wakes _him_ up with beef and broccoli and egg rolls. 

Mac reads. Riley does some more coding. He eats her out again around two in the afternoon. She doesn’t even have to tell him something’s going on. He picks up on her change of breathing, and before she knows it he’s got her naked and crying out beneath his tongue. 

At four-thirty, after some more rounds of Mario Kart and one fairly intense game of battleship, Riley stands up to pace the room a bit. When Mac asks what she needs, she just shakes her head and keeps walkling. He sits on the couch and waits.

Finally, when she’s thought through what she wants to ask, what she _needs_ to ask, she climbs into his lap, placing a knee on either side of his legs. Knowing what she needs, he runs his hands down the length of her back.

“I need to ask you something,” she says, already hot and antsy and consumed with desire. “I need to ask you something and if you don’t want to I _need_ you to tell me no.”

“Okay,” he says, his eyes shining at her. “Tell me what you need?”

She cups his face in her hands. “You,” she says. “Please.”

He frowns at her for a second; his realization dawns slow. “I can give you that,” he tells her. “Let me give you that.”

It’s impressive, really, how he stands with her still in his arms, how he carries her into the bedroom and slowly lowers her onto the bed. He helps her yank her shirt over her head. He lets her divest him of his own. He lets her run her hands over his chest, gently scratch her nails over his abs. 

She flicks open his belt impatiently, unbuttons his jeans and helps him step out of them. 

When they’re both naked, Mac lays between her legs, kissing her stomach, her hipbones, her ribs, her breasts. He moves farther up her body to kiss the column of her neck. She can feel his cock against her, feel that he’s hard and ready and she’s _dying_ for him to be inside her. There’s a quick break for lube and a condom, and then she’s helping him line up, helping him get the angle right.

He sinks into her slowly, and it’s every bit as good as Riley’s overtaxed hormones promised her it would be. She rocks her hips just a little, just enough to take him a little deeper, take a little more of him.

She wants to feel more. She wants to....

What she wants, is to pull him down, feel his mouth on hers. Feel complete. Feel whole.

She does pull him down to her, but he presses his cheek to hers and whispers all kinds of dirty things in her ear. How good she feels around him. How soft her skin is. How she’s driving him crazy.

And quite a bit about arousal response and reaction and blood flow. He’s still Mac. 

In this moment, she wouldn’t trade him for anybody. In every moment, she wouldn’t trade him. Mac’s probably about the only human on earth that could get her through this.

His pace is steady and even and she gets lost in it for a while. He surrounds her, fills her, overwhelms her. He slides his hand between their bodies to rub at her clit, and she swears as she falls apart that his arms are the only thing holding her together.

He’s still thrusting into her, and her poor body actually forces itself to climax _again_ . That must be because of the drug because Riley’s never been able to do _that_ before.

Mac freezes after the second time. “Are you okay? Should I pull out?”

She shakes her head, even as she feels herself getting overstimulated by the second. “Come on,” she encourages. “Come on, take me.” She digs her nails into the skin of his shoulders as he picks up the pace again. It’s a _lot_ , but there’s a part of her that’s screaming for it, begging for it, _needs_ him to come for her.

And when he does, she swears she can practically feel his climax as her own. He collapses on top of her for a long time. He’s heavy and solid, and Riley feels so safe beneath him. They’re both breathing quick, deep breaths and they come down. 

“You all good?” Mac asks, his voice muffled against her skin.

She actually laughs. “You can’t tell that I’m good? I am _very_ good.”

He laughs right along with her. “Probably the drug.”

He slips out of her, and she winces just a little at the sensation. 

“Sorry.” He grimaces a little, rolling over all the way. 

Riley can’t help the way she stares at his bare chest. She draws a finger down his sternum. 

He watches her with lidded eyes. “Shower?”

“Yes, please.”

Mac’s shower is bigger than any shower has any right to be, but Riley can’t find the energy in herself to complain. She can’t find a _lot_ of energy, actually, and she leans against Mac as the hot water sprays down on them. 

Neither of them seems to care that they’re naked with each other in a non-sexual, not-brought-on-by-the-drug situation. 

Patiently, Mac helps her pick through the tangles in her hair. He lathers up a dollop of her shampoo in his hands and methodically works it through the dark strands. After he helps her rinse out all the suds, Mac flips the showerhead to a massage setting and uses it to work out the kinks in Riley’s back and shoulders. 

She falls back against him at some point, hot and needy all over again even as it feels much too soon for the drug to be building her up. Mac cups her breasts, plays with her nipples, kisses all over her shoulders, neck, and back. He takes her from behind, placing one of her hands on a handrail and making sure she’s got both feet on the non-slip mat.

He mutters things about leverage and angles as he positions her how he wants her, and Riley swears it’s the drug that makes the fact that Mac is doing math about _fucking her_ so unbelievably hot.

She is loud, this time, louder than she has been so far. Like the longer this goes, the more of her inhibitions fall away.

If she says his name when she comes, she tries not to think about that too much. 

They get a nice long break—Mac theorizes that it’s because of how quickly the two most recent episodes were—for dinner and dessert.

 _Actual_ dessert: Desi drops of a container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Riley is incredibly grateful.

And incredibly… sad. In a way that she almost can’t describe. Mac likes Desi. Mac is here, with Riley… _with_ Riley. What must Desi think about that? Is Riley ruining his chances of being with someone he truly, _truly_ wants because she’s on the worst drug of all time?

They eat huge bowls of ice cream and watch John Wick. Riley doesn’t watch, so much as stare at the screen and think. They’re not good thoughts. They’re guilty thoughts. She would not be here right now if it weren’t for this stupid drug. She would be at her place and Mac would be here. Mac would be here, and if he got himself off or had sex with someone, he would not be thinking about her when he did it.

At some point, Mac shuts off the movie. “Hey,” he says, nudging her thigh with his toe from the opposite end of the couch. “I can hear you thinking.”

It is 100% a good thing that he can’t.

“Riles,” he drags out the nickname playfully. “You wanna tell me what’s up?”

He shouldn’t call her Riles. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be _kind_ to her.

He’s Mac. He doesn’t know how _not_ to be kind.

Riley releases the breath she’s holding. “Tell me the truth,” she says. “Am I—Is _this_ messing up your chances with Desi?”

He blinks at her in surprise. “What?”

“You like her, Mac,” Riley says. “You have since, well, not long after she started working with us.”

“So?” he asks. “I’ve liked lots of people. Sometimes it works out—for a while, at least—and sometimes it just doesn’t. That’s life, Riles.”

He leans across the couch and takes both of her hands in his. “If helping you means I never get a chance to explore any sort of _what if_ ’s with Desi, that’s a trade off I’m more than willing to make.”

She squeezes his hands. “I swear, Angus MacGyver, you’re too good for this world.” 

“Too pure, huh?” he teases.

“Most cinnamon-y of all the cinnamon rolls,” Riley agrees with a smile.

It must be the drug that makes her feel like he’s leaning in closer. It must be the drug that makes her think, if only for a split second, that maybe he wants to kiss her.

It must be the drug, because they were talking about Desi, how he likes Desi _like that_. 

Riley fucking _hates_ this drug. She hates whoever made it. She would like very much for them to rot in prison, and as soon as she has her full faculties back and free reign on her computer system, she is going to find them all and they are going to _burn_.

“I hate this thing,” she tells Mac. “I really, really hate it.”

And now he is moving in, but it’s so he can hold her closer.

They make it through the rest of the movie before she’s ramping up again.

“Never thought I’d be tired of sex,” she mutters, even as she grinds on his lap and whimpers when he pulls off her shirt and the cool air hits her skin. 

“Just a little while longer,” he tells her. He’s running his fingers in circles around her nipples and it’s driving her crazy. “We’ve almost got you through this. We’re so close. You’re doing so good, Riles. So good.”

He moves in closer to her, kissing the underside of her jaw and down her neck. He sucks at her pulse point and she can’t do anything but gasp and moan.

Some part of her brain is screaming that it would feel _so good_ if he kissed her right now. She could just take his face in her hands and press her mouth to his. She’d love to feel the slide of his tongue, the heat of his mouth on hers. It feels _so good_ against her skin, surely it would feel good to kiss him properly.

It takes massive control not to do it, not to just bend her head down and let her lips crash against his. She knows he’d want it. She thinks he’d want it? She’s not sure.

Honestly though, she’s not even sure which way is up right now. Mac slides a finger inside her and fucks her with it a few times, and she swears she’s losing her mind. All of her mind, all at once. It’s been eaten up by this fucking drug and this fucking arousal.

She thinks he’s saying her name, but she also thinks she might die if she doesn’t orgasm soon.

Then his mouth is on her breasts and he’s sliding a second finger inside her and his thumb is against her clit and oh _yes_ , that’s what she needs.

She hears herself begging for it, begging him to make her come because please, _please_ , she needs it. She needs it so badly. Please fuck her harder, please fuck her deeper, please, please, please.

Through it all he shushes her and reassures her that he’s got her, that he’s going to make her come and it’s going to be okay. “I’ve got you,” he tells her over and over again, and some part of her brain translates that to _I love you_.

It’s cruelty at its finest and most razor-sharp and she _knows_ he’s not saying that, but her heart aches even as she clamps down hard on his fingers and her orgasm crashes through her so hard that she swears she sees stars.

He holds her after, and she cries, hot, heartbroken tears into his shirt. He doesn’t comment on them, just runs his fingers through her curls gently and strokes her bare skin with his fingertips.

She falls asleep on the couch, held securely against Mac’s chest. When she wakes up in the middle of the night because she’s hot and itchy and needy, he brings her into the bedroom and lets her undress him. He’s quiet while she takes him into her mouth, and then when she can’t take it anymore, she positions herself over him and takes him inside her. 

He just twines his fingers through hers and looks up at her with a soft expression on his face while she moves on top of him. At one point he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm, the pads of her fingers, the inside of her wrist. She leans forward, changing the angle, pressing her forehead to his and her hand to his cheek.

She loves him.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him. And it’s going to destroy her.

Her body aches and burns with need, but then she comes around him and he comes inside her and it’s the most satisfying, wonderful thing she’s ever experienced in her life.

She falls back asleep curled around him, chest to his back, pressing soft kisses to his skin and tracing his freckles in the dark. She thinks about how it’s almost over, and how maybe it’s these moments that will haunt her the most.

She’s okay in the morning. At least, she feels okay. She watches the news with Mac and drinks coffee and eats strawberry pop-tarts. He reads, she works on her computer, and time ticks by in seconds and minutes and hours.

They eat peanut-butter and jelly for lunch and Mac talks about the scientifically best way to make a PB&J. Then he cuts off his crusts and Riley teases him about it incessantly, and for a few minutes everything is normal.

They play cards. Riley takes a catnap on the couch while Mac builds a model airplane. They get pizza for dinner with bell peppers and black olives. They argue about the virtues of pineapple on pizza. She is for. He is against.

Every minute, Riley expects the drug to go roaring through her system, but it doesn’t come back. When they finish dinner and leftover cookie dough ice cream, Riley finally says, “I think it’s over.”

Mac nods thoughtfully. She knows he’s figured this out already. 

“Stay the night,” he says. “Just in case.”

She does.

They lie side-by-side in Mac’s bed, and it feels so strange. The past two days have felt a million years long. Riley feels like a completely different person in the face of everything.

In the dark, she reaches for Mac’s hand. It’s still there. Almost like he was waiting for her. 

“We said this doesn’t change anything, right?” Riley asks.

“I promised,” Mac says.

“Will you, uh,” she can’t believe she’s about to ask this. “Will you hold me?”

His answer is to pull her into his arms. If it’s the last time, Riley thinks, she may as well savor it. She places her palm on his chest, over his heart. 

It’s over.

She knows it’s over.

She lies awake for a long time, long after Mac has dozed off. Her body feels muted, numb, by comparison to how strung out she’s been for the past few days. His skin is warm to her touch. His face is relaxed and peaceful, and his arm is strong and sure around her waist. She tries to memorize this. The sex she can forget. This intimacy, this closeness, is everything she’s scared to admit she wants.

She doesn’t know how to let him go.

The morning dawns, and Riley wakes with the sun. It’s the first time since this all started that she’s woken up to find Mac still asleep. For a while, she lies there with him. She feels the rise and fall of his chest. She hears him snore slightly. She watches as the sunlight through the windows plays on the blonde tones in his hair.

Then she gets up and makes coffee. Mac wanders out of the bedroom a little later as if the scent has summoned him. His hair is mussed, and if Riley had to guess, she’d say that he was about 10% awake.

She passes him a mug of coffee. “I think I’m going to just call an Uber,” she says.

Mac takes a sip. He shakes his head. “I can give you a lift home, just let me wake up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You want to stop and get pancakes on the way?”

That sounds like torture. “No, I really just… I really just want to go home.”

He nods, staring down at his coffee. Riley wonders if she should have said yes to pancakes, but she’s really just wants to go home and binge on some bad TV and maybe play some Warcraft and just not have sex for a while.

She’d also maybe like a good, long cry.

Riley packs up her clothes and toiletries while Mac gets dressed. She ties up her hair in a messy bun, dresses in a pair of black jeans and a grey tee-shirt, and goes looking for her boots.

It takes a while to find them, because she thinks they should be in the entryway or in the living room. They’re not. They’re in the bedroom.

Where Mac set them, gently, when he pulled them off of her feet. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was barely three days.

She laces up her boots, grabs her duffle of clothes, and meets Mac in the entryway. He smiles at her, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Ready?” he asks.

She hasn’t been ready for a damn thing. She’s still not ready for this. This may be worse than every part of the past three days stacked on top of each other.

Riley tries for a smile. “Yeah.”

They ride to her apartment in silence. Riley holds her hands in her lap and fiddles with the rings on her fingers. She hasn’t worn them since the first morning, and now they feel strange and alien.

She doesn’t expect Mac to get out of the car when he pulls up to her apartment building, but he does.

“See you, uh, in a couple of days, I guess,” Riley says, because what on earth is she _supposed_ to say? _Thanks for keeping me from dying from lack of orgasms; we should really do it again sometime._

He opens his arms to hug her, and she goes to him without thinking. He smells and feels familiar, like home, like safety. She blinks back a sudden surge of tears and pulls away. “You’re a good friend, Mac. The best.” Her voice chokes up a little on that last word, but she presses on. “I guess I owe you my life a few more times over.”

He grins. It doesn’t hit his eyes. “So I figure I got to save you a few more times and we’ll finally be even.”

She gives him a fake punch on the shoulder that he pretends to wince at. “See you,” he says, and she nods. 

“See you,” she says, giving him a half-hearted wave.

She turns to climb the steps to the front door, and doesn’t look back even as she hears his car pull away.

Safe at home, Riley showers. She scrubs every inch of her skin, daring it to flame to life again, but all she feels is tired and numb.

She wanders aimlessly around her apartment for a little bit. She picks things up and puts them away. She clears out the dishes in her sink and starts the dishwasher. She dumps her entire duffle bag of clothes into her washer and starts a load.

She picks up her computer to do some coding, but sets it down again. She flips through Netflix, then Hulu, then Amazon prime, but doesn’t pick out anything to watch. She grabs a bottle of nail polish remover from her medicine cabinet and scrubs her nails clean. She contemplates at least four different colors and then doesn’t end up re-painting them at all. She toys with ordering take-out, but then changes her mind and throws in a store-bought frozen lasagna from her freezer.

She lets herself cry, a little. She holds onto one of her throw pillows and lets some of the tears fall. She almost calls Jack, but at the last minute she changes her mind and hangs up. Matty texts that she has an appointment tomorrow morning in medical to run some blood tests.

Riley eats her lasagna in her apartment in silence. She wraps up the leftovers and puts them in her fridge. She contemplates running out to refill her selection of wine, but realizes that her car is still at Phoenix. She’ll have to catch a ride or Uber tomorrow. Probably Uber.

At exactly 7:43 PM, there’s a knock at her door. Riley presses the three digit code on her gunsafe and keeps her Phoenix issued handgun in her right hand as she peeks through the peephole. It’s Mac.

Riley puts the Sig Sauer back where it belongs and closes the lid. Then she does a quick once-over of herself, counts to three, and yanks the door open.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” he answers. “I think I need to break a promise, Riles.”

She frowns at him, opening her mouth to ask which one, but—

He’s stepping forward, his hands are cupping her face, and his gaze is heavy and intense on hers. She backs up, and he moves forward, kicking the door shut behind him. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks in a low, tender voice. “Not because of a drug or anything, but just because I want to and you want me to?”

“Do you?” She thinks she can’t breathe. “Do you want to?”

He blows out a slow breath. “More than I’ve wanted anything else in my entire life.” 

She can hear the truth in it. She presses her hands to his abdomen, grabbing his shirt by fistfulls and using it to tug him closer. “Why, Mac?”

“Because you’re my person, Riles. You’re my _person_ . I trust you. I count on you. I _need_ you. Come hell or highwater, you’re _it_.”

Her brain is not moving fast enough to fully process what he’s saying. “But, Desi?”

“Desi’s great, and maybe in another universe, another lifetime, we’d move past _what if_ someday, but Desi’s not you. The _what if_ question that I want to answer is the one about you.” His gaze is still on hers. Waiting. Searching. “I promised nothing would change and I will stick by that if that’s what you really want, but Riley: I’m your person too.”

She makes a brave attempt to smile through the tears welling in her eyes. “Damn right you are,” she says, and then he’s kissing her.

And oh, _god_ , how has she gone through the past three days without this. Mac can _kiss_. Her body is tired and exhausted and nowhere even remotely ready to be aroused, but that doesn’t even matter.

This isn’t about an aphrodisiac having its way with her body, or bringing her to an orgasm so she doesn’t lose her mind, or anything other than just… Mac. 

Mac’s here. Mac wants her. Her whole self. Her whole personhood. He’s seen every single part of it, and he’s still here. It lights a fire inside her that has nothing to do with sex or want or aphrodisiacs. 

He drops his hands from her face, bends a little at the knees, and scoops her up in his arms. She wraps herself tightly around him and feels like maybe after years of wanting, she’s just found home.

When he pulls away, his eyes are wet with tears. Hers are too. She lets her head fall to his shoulder, panting. “This sounds awful,” she says, “But we’re going to need to wait a while to have sex.”

He chuckles, and she can feel it through her whole body. “I figured,” he says. “In the meantime do you think you could be convinced to let me date you?”

“You’re the one who’s gotta tell Jack.” She leans back. He kisses the tip of her nose. “And Matty,” she adds as an afterthought.

“If I’m telling Jack, _you’re_ telling Matty,” he argues.

Riley considers it. “Matty’s scarier than Jack.”

“Mmhmm,” he kisses her neck with soft, barely-there kisses. She squirms, but only because it feels good. 

“I’ll tell Bozer,” she decides. “You can tell everybody else.”

He scrapes his teeth against her skin, and she shivers. She slides a hand up to grip his hair and pull his head back. “No sex, MacGyver.”

He groans, but it’s playful. He loostens his hold on her so she can drop her legs down from his waist and stand. “Can I sleep over anyway?”

“Yeah,” she tells him, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m very good with that. You snore, but you give _really_ good cuddles.”

He kisses her again, a light peck on the lips this time. Then he wraps his arms tightly around her.

And he doesn’t let go.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell about MacRiley with me on the [tumblr](http://Andyouweremine.tumblr.com) or on the [twitter](https://twitter.com/KrisIsTheWorst)?


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